


Halcyon

by Full_Of_Grace



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Character Study, Gen, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-04 22:05:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18821662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Full_Of_Grace/pseuds/Full_Of_Grace
Summary: In which Lysa Tully picks flowers for her mother.





	Halcyon

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve always thought Lysa was an interesting character, and now I’m finally willing to post my fic I thought I might throw out this little piece I did on her.

It’s a good day, Lysa thinks as she looks over the garden, a sunny day. A sort of sing song day she might have dreamt up. The sky is clear and blue as a tapestry, and in the trees the birds are chirping. The air bites at her face a little, but she’s certain that winter is fading. It’s a good day, an auspicious day, so her mother will not die.

Mother is in bed, and mother is sick, but she will live through this bout, if for no other reason than the beauty of the world will prohibit such a tragedy. Lysa herself will prohibit such a tragedy. She is going to find mother some flowers, and if bringing some of today’s loveliness to her bedside won’t cast color into her cheeks, then what will?

She would have asked Catelyn to come with her on her quest, but Catelyn is busy practicing her needlework. Catelyn is ten, and already working to become a perfect lady. Lately she hasn’t had time for Lysa, or quests, or even flowers. Cat has stopped using their secret language, saying they’re too old for such things.

Catelyn, Lysa figures as she hops over a stream, must not worry about mother at all. Catelyn must be content in father’s love, in her sewing, in being the perfect lady. When Lysa had visited mother this morning, she’d done so entirely alone. She’d been very brave, inching through the cool and twisting passageways to mother’s room, and then looking at her, her mother’s hair dark with sweat spread like strangling vines over her pillow. Cat hadn’t done such a thing.

A part of Lysa wishes she had. It had been a strange moment, seeing her mother that way, pale faced and senseless. In truth, Lysa had just stayed in the door frame, afraid to enter the room. If Cat had been with her— but she hadn’t, and Lysa had run from the room, had run and run till she ran out of the keep, and felt the sun in her hair and the wind on her cheeks, and realized there was nothing to fear.

Lysa pokes through some bushes and around a tree. There are good flowers here, mother’s favorites, the little golden cups. She can remember being younger, and sitting with mother and Cat, holding the bells to her mouth as if she could drink from them. They’d been playing tea. It was a nice memory. Maybe when she goes back with the flowers she’ll have Tilma-the-maid make up a pot for mother. She’ll sit with her in her room and they’ll share a drink, and they’ll laugh and smile together, and Catelyn will be alone with her sewing, alone with father, and Lysa will be the favorite for once.

Lysa finds some flowers, looking a bit droopier than she might have hoped, and sets herself to gently maneuvering them out of the earth. If she pulls to hard she’ll hurt them. But she has to pull a little. Otherwise she won’t get them at all.

After a few moments of effort, Lysa has coaxed the yellow blooms from the ground, and in a stunning moment of improvisation, tied them with a ribbon from her hair. The bow’s a little lopsided, but what does it matter. It’s a bow. It’s a bouquet. It’s a nice present on a nice day.

She wonders absently where Petyr is. Once he had given her a bouquet, well, given her and Cat, splitting the flowers into two. Lysa’s had been bigger. That had pleased her, then, but now it seems like a silly concern. Lysa can gather her own flowers. After she’s done with mother, she thinks, she’ll give Petyr some too.

Her mind has wandered too far. On her way back her foot catches on the bank of a little stream, and Lysa sprawls unceremoniously into the water. Her dress is ruined, mucky and soaked, and her flowers have scattered in the weak current, torn away from each other, her ribbon nowhere to be seen.

She starts crying, loudly, pathetically, like she’s a babe in arms like Edmure. She cries for what seems like a very long time. Nobody comes. She cries harder, louder, willing somebody to come pick her up, to kiss her skinned elbow, to acknowledge her hurt. Part of her thinks ‘Catelyn wouldn’t cry like this’ and she tells that part to shut up.

Eventually, somebody comes for her. It’s her uncle Brynden, because it always is, with his great warm arms and his wide blue eyes, so much like her own. He comes to her where she’s huddled in the muck, and he looks at her and he frowns.

“You’re too old,” he says, gently but firmly, while he sets her upright “to carry on over a bruised knee and a wet dress. You’re nearly too big to pick up.”

Lysa only looks at him. “I was getting flowers for mother.” She gestures towards the stream, the few ragged petals wedged into the mud on the bank. “I was trying to brighten her day. It’s all spoiled.” Her lip quivers. She is being childish, but she wants to be childish. Cat wouldn’t cry, but she is not Cat, and she will cry and cry and cry if she has to. 

Uncle Brynden’s face shifts into an expression that Lysa is unwilling to contemplate the meaning of. His great blue eyes look wet, and Lysa throws herself closer into his arms, so she is surrounded, and so that she can’t see his face. She might cry, but her uncle crying, that is another thing entirely. It’s like Cat crying, or father crying. It’s almost the end of the world.

“Mother will be alright, won’t she, Uncle Brynden?” Lysa says, her voice muffled by her uncle’s coat. She turns a hesitant eye upward.

Brynden shifts away from their stricken embrace, a firm hand still on her shoulder. He looks at her. His eyes and cheeks are dry. “Of course she’ll be, sweet Lysa. And you can gather more flowers tomorrow.”

Lysa smiles. Of course she can. She’ll gather twice as many, and then think how happy they’ll be.


End file.
